Reeling from a traumatic tour of duty in Vietnam and the loss of his inheritance to a crooked lawyer and trustee, Eamon Casey seeks refuge on a small island in the Torres Strait. Here, he finds peace. But not for long! He rescues passengers from a sinking boat and finds that a foreign power, greedy for the rich mineral and agricultural resources, is plotting to take over Australia and the south Pacific with the threat of a nuclear attack. Aided by Jessica Bradley, a courageous lawyer and journalist, he foils this plot. The two become lovers and set out to find the people responsible for Eamonâs loss. The trail takes them to Europe, where they track down the man responsible. Will they succeed in bringing him to justice? Will the story have a successful conclusion? This is a tale of excitement, love and struggle set against the backdrop of the vast Australian outback and the beautiful Torres Strait.
Reeling from a traumatic tour of duty in Vietnam and the loss of his inheritance to a crooked lawyer and trustee, Eamon Casey seeks refuge on a small island in the Torres Strait. Here, he finds peace. But not for long! He rescues passengers from a sinking boat and finds that a foreign power, greedy for the rich mineral and agricultural resources, is plotting to take over Australia and the south Pacific with the threat of a nuclear attack. Aided by Jessica Bradley, a courageous lawyer and journalist, he foils this plot. The two become lovers and set out to find the people responsible for Eamonâs loss. The trail takes them to Europe, where they track down the man responsible. Will they succeed in bringing him to justice? Will the story have a successful conclusion? This is a tale of excitement, love and struggle set against the backdrop of the vast Australian outback and the beautiful Torres Strait.
âConnemaraâ, Julia Creek, Qld, Australia: 1969
Eamon Casey eased himself from the saddle and stretched. It had been a long day in the mustering camp, and he was looking forward to food and sleep. As he unsaddled his mount and rubbed him down, the rest of the camp was relaxing. The cook had a good fire blazing, and the smell of sweet curry filled everyoneâs nostrils. Soon they gathered around the fire, yarning about the day.
In northern Australia, the cattle stations are large indeed. This one covered more than a hundred square miles, but it was small by comparison to the huge company-owned properties that surrounded it; still, it carried over three thousand cattle and provided the Casey family with a good living. Eamonâs father, Sean, had come from his familyâs rich grazing property in New South Wales to settle here when he returned from the second world war.
He had been a prisoner of the Japanese and never fully recovered from their brutal treatment on the Burma railway. Two years ago, Sean had died, leaving the cattle station and the livestock to Eamon, to be held in trust until he reached his legal majority, then twenty-one in Australia. In the meantime, Eamon had left school and taken over the management of the property.
His life was soon to be interrupted. In November 1964, the Australian Government, pressured by the USA, introduced a system of national service to provide trained soldiers for the expanding war in Vietnam. They drew birthdates to decide who to conscript. Eamon was to say later, âIt was the only bloody lottery I ever won in my life!â
He was to report to the army in a few days, taking a bus to Mount Isa, and a flight to Brisbane, to the Enoggera Barracks, where he would belong to the army for two years. This would be his last night in the cattle camp.
Billie Quartpot was an Aboriginal station hand from Cape York. Like all his brothers, he rode as if born to the saddle, even though his people had not seen a horse before the white settlers had come, less than two hundred years ago. He had taught Eamon all he knew about horses and cattle, about the âbush tuckerâ available to feed those who knew how to find it. He and Eamon were firm friends, as he was with Billieâs two sons, Jack, and Chrisâthey had grown up together.
In the morning, Eamon bade the camp and the station hands goodbye and caught a ride back to the homestead with the ration truck. He packed his bags and readied himself for his journey. The death of her husband had devastated Anne, his mother; now the prospect of her only child being sent to war filled her with dread. If something happened to him, what would she do?
National Service OTU, Schyeville, NSW: 1970
Second Lieutenant Eamon Casey looked across the parade ground for the last time. He had just marched off with his course after their graduation ceremony. Now they waited anxiously for news of their postings. Eamon had completed corps training as an infantryman, so they would likely post him to one battalion of the Royal Australian Regiment. He half hoped it would be one that had just rotated back to Australia, so he would avoid the war. On the other hand, he wanted to test himself with the best, to see if he really was competent to command men in the field.
Eamon had completed his basic training, ten weeks of constant work, hard discipline, and punishment parades. Being from the bush, he was in better physical condition than most of his intake, and he was used to weapons, but he constantly clashed with instructors over what he saw as unnecessary and trivial army âbullshitâ. Later, he would appreciate just how important this discipline was. Life in the field was not a democratic institution or a debating society. Leaders gave orders, the rest followed.
He completed advanced courses in infantry tactics and fieldwork, including intensive training in anti-guerrilla warfare at the armyâs Jungle Training Centre. Then his mates went to their units while they paraded Eamon and four others in front of the commanding officer. To their complete surprise, they were told the army had selected them for officer training. One other refused the offer; he did not want the responsibility of command. The others went off to Schyeville.
The morning after the graduation party, they were told of their postings. Eamon was going to command a platoon of the 11th Battalion in Sydney. They were preparing for deployment to Vietnam, and the army gave them two weeksâ leave, so Eamon telephoned his mother to tell her he would be home soon. âOh dear,â she said, âItâs not the right time now, Eamon, somethingâs come up. When are you going away?â He told her they would fly to Townsville for their final training for two weeks, and then fly out two days later. It puzzled and disappointed him because he could not go home.
His mother came to Townsville to see him off, but she seemed pre-occupied and a little vague. She didnât want to talk about âConnemaraâ or what would happen after he returned.
Phuoc Tuy Province, South Vietnam: 1970
Captain Rogers looked at his new platoon commander. Shit, he thought, they seem younger and younger every time. He had been waiting for this boy for more than a month, ever since Peter was killed. Bugger it! This was a bastard of a war fought for no purpose anymore. He was sick of trying to do his job with one hand tied behind his back. The VC were everywhere; probably the woman who did the laundry during the day registered targets for her friends to mortar by night. It was stupid, wasteful, and useless, but he had to keep on until the end.
âMr Casey,â he said, âWelcome to B Company. You are to command 3 Platoon. Sit down here; I have some advice for you.â Eamon took a canvas chair. âI hope you will use the time to ease yourself into your job. I have given you 3 platoon because it has the best platoon sergeant in the company; in fact, he has been doing your job for more than a month. Learn from him, make him your closest companion; your life could very well depend on how well you work together. Our primary task here is to patrol our territory constantly, thus denying it to the enemy. Usually, we go out in company strength, sometimes in smaller numbers. We aim to keep the VC on the hop always, so he will become ineffectual. For the next week, I will relieve 3 Platoon of this task. You will get them together and perfect your command and control. Remember, you can learn more from them than they will learn from you. Your platoon is waiting outside on the parade ground, so get cracking, and good luck!â
Eamon saluted. âYes, sir,â he said. Rogers looked at him. âNo saluting here old chap. It marks you down as an officer, and that could be deadly.â
Out on the parade ground, 3 Platoon stood, at ease in three ranks. His sergeant offered his hand to him and he took it. âNice to see you, boss,â he said. âWeâve been waiting for a looey for a while. Come and meet the men.â
The sergeant took him up and down the ranks, introducing him to every man. Most of them shook his hand and answered his questions with a grin. Then he walked to the front and addressed them. âOk, men, you have the new looey you were after. I hope I can do a decent job with you, but you seem to know more about this caper than I do. Perhaps you will teach me some of your tricks. You are dismissed now. Sergeant, can you and the three section leaders remain behind, please? We better have an O Group right away.â
He liked the look of his NCOs. They were lean and fit looking and carried themselves with a quietly confident air. He liked the fact that they looked him in the eye and spoke frankly with him. âThey first thing you should do, boss, is to make yourself invisible. Dress just like the rest of us and leave your rank badges behind. Donât make a target of yourself; these little fellas have some bloody good snipers.â said Sergeant Roberts.
Eamon was happy to accept any helpful advice. His experience as a youth, learning from and being mentored by Billie Quartpot placed him in a helpful position to learn from these men. For a week they practised their communications and field craft. Eamon grew to know them all yet fully accepted each man and his little foibles. Only time in action would do that. At the end of the week, B Company set out on a ten-day patrol.
The Australians did not trust the trails through the jungle. They could be ambushed, mined, and booby-trapped. Using them gave Charlie too much information and too much time to prepare for his own ambush. Since the Battle of Long Tan, Charlie had been reluctant to take on the Australians in any kind of fixed engagement. He preferred a quick ambush, a few bursts of fire, a few grenades, and then to hightail it before his targets could mount any kind of effective action. This patrol was to be a ten-day sweep across the southern section of their territory. They had learned to move silently through the thick jungle; there was no smoking, no talking; communication was by field signals. They buried all their garbage and excrement. Each night, they formed a defensive perimeter. For Eamon, this was all the stuff of his training, made a little more interesting by the knowledge that there might be small men (and women) with AK47s who wanted to kill him.
He found that his command ran smoothly and gave thanks to his predecessor who had trained them so well. For the time being, he was content to leave the details to his sergeant and to listen and learn from him. He was fortunate that they found no VC on this patrol, that they did not fire a shot in anger. He was being eased into it. The climate, however, was not something they could teach him about in training; he had to adjust to it in a hurry, and it almost exhausted him.
The wet season was not yet upon them, and the heat and humidity descended on him like a heavy blanket. It was much worse than northern Queensland, and in the jungle, there was no hope of a cooling breeze to ease it. Water discipline was vital, and he understood now why all the men carried at least six water bottles. He thanked God he was fit and hard from his work on âConnemaraâ.
On the last day before they were due to be lifted out by the helicopters of the US army, they came across something that had a profound effect on Eamon. They halted, and word came back to move around and encircle a small village in an open space beside a stream. There were several small rice paddies nearby, and the scouts thought that something was out of the ordinary. There were dead buffalo in the fields, and a complete absence of people. Smoke rose in twisted tendrils from the remains of the huts.
The company commander ordered 3 platoon forward to investigate. Before long, the forward section commander called Eamon up to him. âBoss,â he said, âThe forward scout reports no sign of life in the village. It seems the whole place has been gone over well and truly. Itâs not a pretty sight.â Eamon sent a runner back to report to the captain and then ordered his platoon to approach the edge of the village carefully. When his men did this, he went with his sergeant and lead section into the village proper for a closer look.
The scene before them was horrific, and the smell made them all want to throw up. There was death and destruction everywhere. Someone had slaughtered the pigs and chickens, and corpses, all of them old men, women, and children, lay scattered throughout. They had burnt most of the huts to the ground; a few partially damaged ones remained. Soon Captain Rogers arrived with his headquarters personnel. âChrist,â he said, âWhat a mess!â
âWho do you think would do this?â asked Eamon âSurely not our blokes?â
âYou never know,â said Rogers. âIt wouldnât be the first time someone went crazy!â He sent his men to search the place thoroughly; soon reports filtered back.
Some women were raped, but the most telling find was a plethora of brass cartridge cases, 7.62mm, most likely from an M60. Rogers looked very grim. âFuck!â he said. âWe spend all our time trying to protect these people, and someone else destroys our months of work in a few minutes.â
Suddenly, there was a call from the other side of the village. Two men appeared carrying a young girl, battered and bleeding, but she was alive. She appeared to be in a catatonic state, barely aware of her surroundings. She looked to be about fourteen years of age and they had not spared her the attentions of those who had attacked the other women.
Rogers called an officersâ meeting. âOk,â he said, âThis is bloody awful. It looks as though some of our allies have had a little fun here. The VC wouldnât have wasted those pigs and chickens, and it is unlikely that they would have been responsible for the attacks on the women. What do you think?â
Eamon kept silent, as was his place being the junior platoon leader. One other commented, âBut thereâre no young men here; it looks like a recruiting plan gone wrong by the VC.â
âHow do you explain this?â said Rogers, showing the spent brass and several links from a M60 belt.
Eamon said, âCould it have been the NVA, using a captured machine gun? If this village were loyal to the government, could it have been retribution, and a lesson to others? Or could it have been government troops?â
Rogers had no answers. He had his radioman call up battalion HQ and ask for investigators and helicopters for extraction. They had covered up the girl and given her morphine; they would take her back to the hospital with them. Then he had his men take two patrols out into the jungle surrounding the village to look for any further evidence and to secure the landing zone for the helicopters. Back in their base camp, Eamon could not put the horrible images out of his mind. He talked it over with the other officers. They were fatalistic. âItâs not the first time Iâve seen stuff like that,â said one, âand it wonât be the last. Itâs a dirty little war all right. Most civil wars are.â
They continued their patrolling. Several times Eamonâs platoon got involved in contacts. It pleased him to discover he did not panic under fire. His comprehensive training had paid off. They caused many casualties, but luckily his men remained unscathed. He thrived in the environment, becoming inured to the physical discomfort. He became confident in his men and his capacity to command. Then he found the proper war, or rather, it found him.
They were on a regular sweep in company strength. It was hot, extremely hot, and humid with the first of the monsoon rains threatening, when the lead platoon walked into an ambush. At first, it seemed like a normal hit-and-run attack by the VC, then the platoon commander called in to report that they were under heavy fire and had sustained several casualties. Quickly, the company commander ordered them to fall back through the second platoon and take up a defensive position. This took them back through Eamonâs platoon, now in the front line. He gave quick orders but realised his men had already started moving into position; he gave thanks for a well-trained platoon and its sergeant.
A storm swept over the field; then, through the downpour, they could see the approaching enemy. This time they were NVA and not likely to disappear in a hurry; the Australians opened with a withering fire from M60s and rifles. The next twenty minutes were a blur for Eamon. Almost by reflex, he moved into the centre of his platoon and directed fire. He deployed one man with a grenade launcher, and his fire had the effect of stopping the charging troops. Then it settled down to a slogging match; the NVA tried to advance, crawling from cover to cover, occasionally rising in small groups to run at the defenders.
Then it finished as quickly as it had begun. The rain swept across the battlefield, getting heavier and heavier; the enemy had gone. Night fell, and they set up a perimeter about a hundred yards back and to the right of their line of advance. They spent the night wet and cold with double sentries posted; few could sleep anyway.
In the morning, they could see the devastation ahead of them. More than a hundred NVA lay around their previous position; here and there was a figure in jungle green. They had not escaped unscathed. There were seven dead Australians, one of them from Eamonâs 3 Platoon. He lay there, huddled over his rifle, a look of surprise on his face, as if to say, âthis wasnât supposed to happenâ. Eamon took the loss badly, as though it had been his fault that he should have done more to protect his men. He was a long time coming to terms with it. In the meantime, the war continued. Promoted to lieutenant, he became a good platoon commander, respected by his men, and valued by his company commander.
The war, however, was exacting its toll on him. He had bad dreams of the violated women, the dead children, the slaughtered animals, and the destruction. He saw many more atrocities by the VC and NVA. Cruellest of all was the treatment handed out by the South Vietnamese and the North Vietnamese to captives from both sides. Mutilation was common. Many of them seemed to be a deliberate attempt not to kill, but to disable their victims permanently. Many times, he saw men with eyes gouged out or genitals mutilated.
By the time he had been in Vietnam for nine months, he was almost at breaking point, held together only by the responsibility he felt for his men. All that ended abruptly on his next patrol. Fragments from a VC grenade tore through his left side and leg. His war was over.
Greenslopes Veterans Hospital, Brisbane, Qld, Australia: 1971
He was in a field hospital for a couple of weeks until deemed fit to travel, then evacuated to Australia. He was in the Greenslopes Veterans Hospital in Brisbane for over two months. While he was there, his mother came down to visit him. She seemed uncomfortable in his presence and he asked her why. They had corresponded while he had been away, but her letters offered little news: they were mostly short, containing the usual endearments and entreaties to be careful, along with some of the station news. On this sparkling morning, she sat, nervously wringing her hands. Finally, she spoke.
âEamon, I did not tell you this while you were away; I did not want to worry youâyou had enough on your plate.â She hesitated. âI suppose there is no easy way to tell you this, but I have remarried; you must understand, I was so lonely after your father died, and you went away. I found it all too much on my own.â
âMarried? Whoâs the lucky man?â He did not feel comfortable about this; it seemed disloyal to his father.
âEamon, I have married Barry McCloud, you know him, from âChipperfield Stationâ.â
Eamon knew him all right. McCloud was a huge bull of a man, arrogant and loud, a bully and a braggart. He was the manager of one of the company stations that bordered âConnemaraâ. He had a reputation for dealing rather economically with the truth. It had been a long-standing rumour that the unusually low calving rate on âChipperfieldâ was because of the disappearance of many of the calves into Barryâs own bank account.
âMum, you canât be serious. The manâs an A-grade arsehole! Please tell me you are joking, please.â âEamon, try to understand. He says he loves me and I needed someone. I had hoped you would get on with him. He is helping run the property for me. I couldnât have carried on without him.â
âRun the station! Billie Quartpot could have done that, and a bloody sight better than that prick! Never mind, Iâll be home soon, and Iâll sort that arrogant bastard out. You can tell him heâs not wanted on âConnemaraâ.â
He was still in denial about what his mother had told him. She looked embarrassed. âEamon, it would be better if you didnât come home right away. Let things settle down, get yourself well again, and then have a nice long holiday. You deserve it, and we will send down an allowance for you every month. Enjoy yourself for a while, then we can work things out.â
Eamon was about to tell his mother what she could do with her money, but hesitated. It was probably guilt money for her, but it entitled him to some income from the property. After all, it would become his in another year. He still had five months to serve in the army; after that, a good long holiday would be welcome.
He spent long days in the hospital. The grenade wounds in his side healed completely, leaving ugly puckered scars from the hurried field hospital sutures. His leg was a different matter. He had been lucky not to lose it; surgeons had removed over thirty pieces of metal from the leg and the fibula had a compound fracture. It was healing, but he had lost some muscle tissue as well. He would eventually recover, but he would experience some pain and weakness in the leg for the rest of his life. He spent his last months in the army instructing recruits before being discharged on medical grounds. What was he to do now?
In the hospital, he had read the coverage of the war avidly. It had been a losing proposition right from the start, propping up a corrupt regime, sacrificing the lives of over fifty thousand young Americans and over five hundred Australians, not to mention Philippinos, Thais, Koreans, and New Zealanders. Hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese died. The war had taken an American Presidentâs career with it, and so scarred the United States that it would be a generation before it recovered.
In Australia, the opponents of the war had waged a civil disobedience campaign to stop it. Unfortunately, they failed to distinguish between the war and those sent by their government to wage it. The public abused returning soldiers, spat upon, called âbaby killersâ and worse and the government, that had sent them off to war, ignored them. The public scorned them. The army resorted to flying them home in the middle of the night, dressed in civilian clothes, for a speedy, anonymous discharge.
Many suffered from the war and their treatment upon arriving home. It would take a further fifteen years before the politicians formally recognised their service. For many, it was too late. There were suicides, broken relationships, mental health issues and more.
Eamon was proud of his service and distressed at the public reaction to the soldiers who had performed more than adequately a task they had not asked for. He became withdrawn, and the dreams still haunted him.
He had heard little from his mother, and even less about âConnemaraâ. He took his discharge and climbed on board a flight to Mount Isa. It was time to settle things finally.
There is something very solid about Patrick Ford's storytelling. It has pace; it is plotted so you are led, as a reader, convincingly and adeptly from scene to scene through crucial events, action and character encounters, all conveyed with no stutters or comprehension issues with which you, the reader, must contend; the dialogue reads truly; the purpose is direct and unwavering.
And sometimes that's all you need from a book: to be transported into someone else's story where you root for the hero, willing him to succeed and vanquish his foes, and maybe find a bit of romance on the way. That's certainly what you get here.
Eamon is a soldier who bears the physical and emotional scars of his tour of Vietnam. Looking forward to coming home, he faces more emotional upset when he is deprived of his inheritance. This shock requires him to regroup and he does this by withdrawing to an island in the Torres Strait where he lives like Robinson Crusoe.
However, it is the making of him; despite the fact that his refuge becomes a battleground, he is dogged in his ability to survive and fight for what he values and loves. And what he values is his family home 'Connemara' which he is determined to enjoy again and what he subsequently loves stems from the relationship that he develops with journalist, Jessica Bradley.
Eamon is a survivor but it is his teaming up with Jessica that provides the driver that he needs to challenge those who robbed him of his inheritance. And so, we follow the two of them as they gather evidence, supporting each other in their ambitions with the ultimate goal of reclaiming what's owed and getting revenge.
I read this quickly, keen to discover if Eamon would be successful. Ford's portrayal of Eamon's and Jessica's relationship is at the core of the book. They are a team and Eamon finding someone after his lonely existence adds to that sense of him being worthy, an underdog who deserves more. And who doesn't love an underdog story?
I enjoyed this book with Ford's writing having clear purpose, with continuous action throughout alongside solidly portrayed characters, leading to a satisfactory conclusion and making this a smooth read.